


Face-Heel Turn

by genop0ke



Series: Friday Drabbles [3]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Amputation, Blood, Burns, Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6562978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genop0ke/pseuds/genop0ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Tord didn't redeem himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Face-Heel Turn

Everything had failed for him. Failed, failed, failed. He hates the word, but it describes his plight perfectly, down to the letter. Power had gone to his head. And he accepts that, now. Perhaps he just wants that savory flavor back in his mouth, to get another taste of victory. But everything is now going all downhill, all because of a single harpoon and a few button presses.

Perhaps he should create a new robot. One that isn’t vulnerable to buttons. One that isn’t vulnerable to harpoons. One that isn’t vulnerable to itself. He shakily smiles to himself, drinking in his own misery, letting it fuel his ambitions and anger. Yes, this will work. This will work.

His left hand trembles, holding a knife. To make an omelette, you have to break a few eggs. To get what you want, you have to cut off useless body parts. Not the best analogy, but his right arm is functionable, albeit unable to feel. Feelings aren’t needed, but if he’s going to have a limb that has no feeling in it, he might as well replace it with one that cannot be harmed, either. A robotic prosthetic. Superior in every way to the crisp, incinerated mass of flesh affixed to his right shoulder.

He tries his best to stifle his own pained cries, his own pained hisses between gritted teeth. To be powerful, you mustn’t show pain. You mustn’t show fear. You mustn’t show weakness. To show pain or fear is to be weak. “...ubrukelig tingen…”

After a few agonizing minutes, his work is done. He hastily wraps his shoulder in gauze, holding the remaining part of the limb up some and holding his hand tightly over the bandaging. For a moment, he considers attempting a tourniquet. Too bad those need two hands, eh? Keeping his breathing as steady as possible, he hobbles out of the room he’s confined himself into, seeking out a certain pair of people. The only two men he can currently trust.

“Vore. Dupske. Find Trevant. I need that-- that arm.”

The pair come right away. Their faces go pale, eyes widening and mouths agape. “...s-sir, are you sure you don’t need a nurse..?”

“Yes. I’m sure. I’m fine. Get me my fucking replacement.” His tone takes on a sharp, harsh sound, strained through the excruciating pain centered on his shoulder. Looking to each other with hesitation, the pair slowly nod and dash away to find the base’s engineer. After a few tense moments of leaning on the wall, the man spots the two coming back with a third. “...about time. Get me my arm.”

Trevant holds his hands out, a sleek, crimson, robotic arm clutched in their grasp. The Red Leader snatches it away, vanishing back into his quarters.

Moments pass. He returns to the hallway, leaning on the doorway with his left hand, his right arm laying slack at his side. Red lights in the cybernetics slowly begin to light up with a faint glow. His chest is noticeably moving with deep, heavy breaths. While getting the arm on, he had decided to try and slick back the two bits of hair on his head, with mild success.

“I’ll be busy for the next month or so. I’m already planning our new robot. The world is mine.”

* * *

 

“...old… friends. Long time no see.” His words bitterly leave his lips, devoid of any emotion. He stands in front of three open doors, a hoodie-bound man standing in each doorway. He didn’t bother changing into his own casual attire for this occasion. His body is swathed in reds and grays, a patch covering a scarred, burnt right eye. Gloves sit idly on his hands. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

“Why are you here?” The bitter, blue-wearing one. What was his name again? Tom? “I thought you were dead.”

“You thought. You didn’t know,” is all he responds with, his voice dead.

The caffeine-addicted, green-wearing one speaks up. Edd. “Tord? Are you alright? You don’t seem alright.”

That name stings. He hasn’t used the short form of his given name in ages. “...I thought you knew my full name. Do you need a reminder?” An unfamiliar edge lines his words.

The stupid, violet-wearing one speaks up. “Oh! It’s, uh… Turgid or something, right, Tord?”

“Thorfrid. It’s Thorfrid, you imbecile.” His hand twitches uncomfortably. Why did he come back here? These people are insufferable. The sound of a British accent makes him want to punch children.

Even Tom, of all people, seems noticeably uncomfortable and put off by the change in attitude compared to before. “...Tord. What the fuck is going on with you?”

“Thorfrid. Tord is short for Thorfrid, use my full given name.”

“Whatever.” Tom crosses his arms, narrowing his eyelids. “Tord, I’m going to repeat myself. What the fuck is going on with you?”

“It’s Thorfrid.”

“That’s not answering my question.”

“I shouldn’t have to answer.” He clenches his right hand into a fist, the palm heating up some. His expression is blank, but anger is boiling inside of his gut, making his prosthetic overheat some.

The conversation goes on for a good few minutes, every mention of his name mistakenly shortened to “Tord”. His calm, blank facade begins to crack, irritance beginning to noticeably warp his expression.

“So, Tord, are you sure you’re alr-” Matt begins, but is cut off by a dangerously hot metal hand slapping his face.

“It’s! Fucking! Thorfrid!” The Red Leader roars, holding his hand in place for a few moments before shoving the ginger away. Terrified, shrill cries rise in the other’s throat hands clamping onto a seared mark on his cheek. “GET IT RIGHT.”

It now occurs to the trio that Tord Larsen is still a threat.

He turns on them, rolling up his right sleeve and clicking some panels on his arm with his left hand, like cocking a gun. He raises his right palm, the middle glowing with some kind of light.

“Tord, calm d--”

“Edward, you IDIOT!” A blast erupts from the palm, whistling between Edd and Tom. It badly singes their sides. “IT’S THORFRID.” He’s livid. He’s snapped. Tom tries to tackle him, hold him down, but a blast to the chest sends him into a wall, coughing.

“C-come on, Tor--- “Thorfrid”, calm the fuck down, it’s-- it’s just a name, man…”

“It’s my proper name. Get it right.”

Another blast.

And all is quiet.


End file.
